“Oranges,” said Mikhail. “You supply the oranges that Jean-Luc uses in his restaurants and hotels.”
“And pomegranates,” said Bakkar agreeably. “Morocco has very fine pomegranates. The best in the world, if you ask me. But the authorities in Europe don’t want our oranges and pomegranates. We’ve lost several large shipments lately. Jean-Luc and I were discussing how it happened and what to do next.”
Mikhail listened, expressionless.
“Unfortunately, we lost more than just fruit in the recent seizures. Something irreplaceable.” Bakkar looked at Mikhail speculatively. “Or perhaps not.”
Bakkar beckoned for more tea. Mikhail watched the man in the Toyota while the glasses were filled.
“What sort of business are you in, Monsieur Antonov?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Your business,” repeated Bakkar. “What is it you do?”
“Oranges,” said Mikhail. “And pomegranates.”
Bakkar smiled. “It is my understanding,” he said, “that your business is arms.”
Mikhail said nothing.
“You’re a careful man, Monsieur Antonov. I admire that.”
“It pays to be careful. Fewer shipments go missing.”
“So it’s true!”
“I am an investor, Monsieur Bakkar. And I have been known on occasion to broker deals that involve the movement of goods from Eastern Europe and the former Soviet republics to troubled places around the world.”
“What sort of goods?”
“Use your imagination.”
“Guns?”
“Armaments,” said Mikhail. “Firearms are only a small part of what we do.”
“What sort of merchandise are we talking about?”
“Everything from Kalashnikovs to helicopters and fighter jets.”
“Aircraft?” asked Bakkar, incredulous.
“Would you like one? Or how about a tank or a Scud? We’re running a special this month. I’d place your order now, if I were you. They won’t last long.”
“None for me,” said Bakkar, holding up his hands, “but an associate of mine might be interested.”
“In Scuds?”
“His needs are very specific. I would prefer to let him explain.”
“Not yet,” said Mikhail. “First, you tell me a little bit about him. Then I’ll decide whether I want to meet with him.”
“He is a revolutionary,” said Bakkar. “I assure you, his cause is just.”
“They always are,” said Mikhail skeptically. “Where’s he from?”
“He has no country, not in the Western sense of the word. Borders are meaningless to him.”
“Interesting. But where will I ship his arms?”
Bakkar’s expression turned suddenly serious. “Surely you are aware that the recent political turmoil in our region has erased many of the old borders drawn by diplomats in Paris and London. My associate comes from such a place. A place of great upheaval.”
“Upheaval is what keeps me in business.”
“I should think so,” said Bakkar.
“What is your associate’s name?”
“You may call him Khalil.”
“And before the upheaval?” asked Mikhail quickly, as though the name meant nothing to him. “Where was he from?”
“As a child he lived along the banks of one of the rivers that flowed from the Garden of Eden.”
“There were four,” said Mikhail.
“That’s correct. The Pishon, the Gihon, the Euphrates, and the Tigris. My associate lived along the banks of the Tigris.”
“So your associate is an Iraqi.”
“He was once. He’s not any longer. My associate is a subject of the Islamic caliphate.”
“I trust he’s not in the caliphate now.”
“No. He’s right over there.” Bakkar inclined his head toward the Toyota. Then he looked at Mikhail and asked, “Are you carrying a weapon, Monsieur Antonov?”
“Of course not.”
“Would you mind terribly if one of my men searched you?” Bakkar smiled amiably. “You are an arms dealer, after all.”
There was a gathering at the driver’s-side door of the Toyota—five men by Gabriel’s count, all armed. Finally, the door swung open, and with some difficulty the man inside climbed out. He remained next to the vehicle, protected by a circle of guards, for another long moment while Mikhail was thoroughly searched. And only when the search was complete did he make his way toward the center court of the camp. The armed guards surrounded him in a tight scrum. Even so, Gabriel could see that he was favoring the right leg. Step one of the two-step authentication process was complete. Step two, however, could not be accomplished from on high, with the use of an American drone. Only a face-to-face encounter would suffice.
Gabriel dispatched a message to Christopher Keller, stating that the subject had just entered the camp and that he had walked with a noticeable limp. Then he watched as the subject extended a hand toward an officer of Israeli intelligence.
“Dmitri Antonov,” said Gabriel softly, “I’d like you to meet my friend Saladin. Saladin, this is Dmitri Antonov.”
There were two Israeli officers at the remote desert camp who could potentially provide the second stage of the authentication required to launch a targeted killing operation on the soil of a sometime ally in the war on terror. The first was seated before the subject himself, with no weapon or communications device. The second was a few feet away in a comfortably furnished tent. The officer outside had had only a fleeting encounter with the subject in a famous Georgetown restaurant. But not the officer in the tent. She had spent several days with the subject in a house of many rooms and courts near Mosul and had spoken to him at length. She had also, in a cabin at the edge of the Shenandoah in Virginia, heard the subject sentence her to death. It was not a sound she would ever forget. She did not need to see the subject’s face to know it was him. His voice told her it was so.
There was a third officer who had seen the subject in person as well—the officer who was waiting anxiously in a haunted house, in the old colonial section of Casablanca. When the confirmation of the subject’s identity landed on his computer, he forwarded it immediately to the Black Hole at Langley.
“Got him!” shouted Kyle Taylor.
“Not yet,” cautioned Uzi Navot, gazing at the image on the screen. “Not by a mile. Not even close.”
57
The Sahara, Morocco